


Sorry I'm Late

by OfficialStarsandGutters



Series: To the Moon and Back: Werewolf Mickey [6]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Werewolf Mickey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 22:52:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10626813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfficialStarsandGutters/pseuds/OfficialStarsandGutters
Summary: “I'm sorry for being all... Y'know.”“You weren't all anything. You had a shit day. You have a right to feel however you need to fuckin' feel about it, Ian.”“Okay,” Ian says softly, laying a hand on Mickey's chest. “Thank you for being there for me.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [matchst_ck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/matchst_ck/gifts).



> TW for suicide mention.  
> -  
> For my fic writing soulmate, the ever so lovely and extremely thoughtful matchst_ck, who wanted wolf Mickey comforting Ian after a bad day. As it is HER BIRTHDAY TODAY (HAPPY BIRTHDAY CUTIE PIE!!) she gets whatever she wants. I hope you like it and wolf Mickey sends you many sloppy puppy kisses for your birthday!

“I probably won't be back until after you've changed tonight.”

“Yeah, I know. I'll be fine.”

“I know.” Ian sighs, resting his forehead against Mickey's. “I like to be there.”

“And you will be. Once you're done savin' lives.” Mickey bumps Ian's cheek with his nose and Ian manages a flicker of a smile.

“Ugh. I'm so tired already and I'm not even there yet.” He sighs, dotting kisses down Mickey's jaw. “Alright. I'll see you later.”

“I'll see you in the mornin'.”

“Still you.” Ian kisses Mickey, firm and lingering, before dragging himself away and heading out the door. He glances back and grins at the sight of Mickey smiling soft and dopey at him. Mickey scowls at being caught and flips him off, but his smile doubles when Ian blows him a kiss in response.

*

Mickey is waiting outside the front door when Ian drags himself back from work. It's late already, the full circle of the moon just a distant white dot in the murky blue-black of the sky. Mickey pads forward, panting happily, wagging his tail. He makes a show of chasing it when he sees Ian, something that is usually a foolproof way of getting him to laugh. Ian doesn't laugh tonight. He trudges past Mickey, barely glancing at him, just skimming the tips of his fingers along Mickey's head.

“Sorry I'm late,” he mumbles.

Mickey whines, high in his throat. He's at Ian's heels as he circles around the house and slumps down onto the steps. Ian's hands are shaky as he fumbles for his pack of cigarettes. It takes him a few attempts to pull one out, and a few more to actually light it. He inhales deeply, seems to steady for just a second as he closes his eyes and holds the smoke. He's shaking again when he exhales, eyes slowly opening. Mickey repeats his whine, looking at Ian questioningly.

“Bad night at work,” Ian says, his voice hoarse with emotion. Mickey puts his head on Ian's lap. Ian rubs him behind the ear, leaning his head against the wooden railing of the porch steps and aiming his exhales away from Mickey. They sit in silence until Ian flicks the butt away. Mickey bounces back, taking that as a signal that they're going to move, but Ian can't.

He props his elbows on his knees and rests his head in his hands, shoulders curving forward. He's tired. He's so tired, bone deep tired, the kind of aching emotional exhaustion that kept him trapped in bed before. Not quite as bad as then, but heavy enough that the risk is there. He's not sure how he made it through the rest of his shift. Fuck, he's not even sure how he made it home, but he's here now, and his reserves are at empty. He sighs; a long, drawn out sound of defeat. Mickey ducks down and nudges his way in between the gap of Ian's elbows, cold nose bumping his cheek. He whines. He licks whatever part of Ian's face he can reach, and the thin emotional floodgates Ian has been barely holding together collapse.

He curls his arms around Mickey's shoulders and presses his face into the thick fur of his neck. The first shaky sob rolls through him, racking his body, a pained sound tearing it's way out of his throat, but no tears. Not yet. Suspended shock; the kind of pain that is beyond tears. Mickey bumps his head against Ian's, prompting.

“A patient died on me,” Ian says after a long silence, his voice soft in the quiet of the night, barely carrying beyond their private bubble. “He, uh, cut his wrists. We got there on time, but... Fuck, Mick. He bled out in the ambulance, and he was so fuckin' scared. He was crying and he kept tellin' me he was sorry and askin' me to help him, and he was just a fuckin' kid, barely seventeen. Cut them up the way, so you can't stitch them.”

Ian goes still, seeing so vividly the scene in his head, the scene that will continue to haunt him for the next few weeks. Losing someone is always difficult. He's only lost a few patients in his time, and it is always freshly painful. He doesn't think death is something it is possible for him to get used to, doesn't know how anyone can get used to it, but the mentally ill patients are always the hardest for him. Not to mention how fuckin' young the kid was.

“Marcus. His name was Marcus and he was still a fuckin' kid and now he's just... _gone._ ” Ian runs a hand through his hair. It's sticking in several directions, as if this isn't the first time his hand has been dragged back through it. He's pale in the dark of the night. His eyes are sunken, dark shadows of tiredness beneath them. His hand is still shaking when he lowers it. Mickey presses his head against the palm to steady it, whining softly and consolingly. Ian sniffs. Mickey licks the salty lines of tears from his cheeks as they finally start to flow.

“Shit,” Ian says softly. “He just kept sayin' he didn't want to die, but then he did. I couldn't stop it. I couldn't-”

They lapse into quiet again. Ian is staring blankly ahead of him; looking towards the back garden, but unseeing. He is aware of Mickey's presence at his side, but only vaguely. He feels disconnected from himself. Like he's too small inside his body. Like it's just a shell and he's trapped in the vastness of it. Mickey gently headbutts his chin. The sensation brings him back, physical touch grounding him. He tangles his fingers in Mickey's fur and just holds, clings, like if he holds firmly enough to Mickey it will stop him from falling deep down inside himself.

“All I could see was my mom,” he admits, in a whisper that is pulled so raw from his throat the words are little more than a rasp. Mickey's head tilts in silent questioning. “I need a drink.”

He follows Ian into the kitchen, sticking closely to his side. Ian opens a bottle of beer and downs half of it in several long gulps. The alcohol rushes dizzily to his head, but it's good, it's a relief, and while it gives his head a floaty feeling, it's actually anchoring him. He sniffs again. Rubs the back of his hand beneath his nose. His eyes are raw and red rimmed, a little itchy at the corners where tears have started to dry. Mickey licks at his fingertips. Ian pats his head.

He drops down into one of the kitchen chairs, energy depleted again. Mickey looks up at him with blue eyes sharp and alert, watching Ian closely. Ian laughs, watery, catches his chin and tilts his head up so he can press a kiss to the side of his snout. Mickey's tongue flicks out to kiss Ian's nose. Ian slumps down in his chair. He sips at his beer. Another long silence passes.

“I never told you about that. I told you she was bipolar, right?” Mickey nods, but Ian's not looking at him. He's staring at the counters of the kitchen as if he can see through them, as if he can see Monica's body still lying there on the floor, wrists pumping blood. He can't. Not really. But every now and then he does. He knows it's not her, not really; just the ghost of a memory, vivid enough to unsettle him. “How she comes in and out of our lives; stays a while, leaves. Blows in and out like a storm, like a.. Fuckin' hurricane. Wrecks everything she touches before she blows on.”

Mickey's head rests heavy on his thigh, a comforting weight. Ian's fingers trail absently through his fur as he pauses again, trying to summon the words, trying to work out how to describe what to him is so indescribable. It's easy to say: Monica tried to kill herself. That is simple. Straightforward. It doesn't feel like enough. It doesn't mean enough. He doesn't have words that are enough.

“She tried to kill herself. One Thanksgiving. Said she was gonna wash her hands but she cut her wrists. We found her over there, on the kitchen floor, in a puddle of blood.” Ian's voice shakes. He swallows hard, fingers curling in Mickey's fur, clinging. “I was sixteen. I'd... I'd never seen blood like that before.”

A breath shudders out of Ian. His hand goes for his hair again, tangles in the strands and _tugs_ , the pain momentarily grounding. He's finished his beer and now all he has is the acrid taste of it clinging to the back of his tongue, cloying in his throat. He needs to brush his teeth. Suddenly, it is of the utmost importance that he brushes his teeth. Brushing his teeth is all that matters.

He stands without warning. Mickey bounces back, ears perked up and alert, eyes on Ian. Ian moves past him and takes the stairs two at a time. He can hear the patter of Mickey's paws following him. He steps into the bathroom and fumbles with the toothpaste, squeezing too much onto his brush. His mouth is full of foam within a matter of seconds, but he doesn't stop, just brushes and brushes until foam is dripping down his chin, until his gums ache, until the sting of spearmint is all he can taste. He spits. Catches his own eye in the mirror. Regrets it.

“C'mon.” Ian pats Mickey's head as he passes, making his way to his room. He just barely has the energy to strip down to his boxers before he's flopping on the bed. He stays there, face down, until Mickey starts bumping him with his nose. He whines, taking the blanket between his teeth and tugging it, silently prompting Ian to move beneath it. When Ian doesn't, he growls softly and headbutts him again. Eventually, Ian gives in, rolling over enough to allow Mickey to pull the blanket from beneath him. He hops onto the bed and takes the other end between his teeth, pulling it over Ian this time. Ian holds the edge up for him to belly crawl in beside him.

He feels safer in the dark. Like it's easier to force the words out when Mickey can't see him. Like it's easier to admit things, with the heat of Mickey running along the length of his body, his face pressed into the comforting animal scent.

“I just kept seeing her on our kitchen floor. Shaking and crying and bleeding. Every time I looked at that kid.” Ian sighs. Mickey's nose presses cold and firm against his cheek, a stray tear adding to its dampness. “How far away was I from that? I mean, I never thought about hurting myself like that, but... Maybe I would have. If I got any worse.”

Mickey grumble-growls in protest, and Ian knows what he means. Knows that it's a promise, unspoken; that Mickey's here to stop that from happening. He muffles another wet laugh against Mickey's fur, his body aching with exhaustion. He runs his hand down Mickey's back in long, slow strokes until he starts to drift off, his hand falling still, resting between Mickey's shoulder blades.

*

Ian stirs late the next morning. His eyes are stuck shut with sleep sand, and he has to rub at them with his knuckles before he can peel them open. He still feels tired. His body is still aching dully. The muffled version of a low mood. He stretches and yawns. The memory of what happened last night rolls back to him. He wishes it hadn't.

“Sorry I'm late,” Mickey says softly, leaning over Ian. Ian smiles at him slowly, questioning.

“Late for what?”

“You needed me last night and I wasn't there.”

“You were there.”

“Not to... Not to take care of you.” Mickey frowns, his hand running over Ian's hair. His eyebrows are drawn together and every inch of his face betrays concern. Ian feels his chest clench with a sudden, intense wave of love. He reaches up and touches his fingertips to Mickey's cheek.

“Hey. You did. You mightn't be able to do it in the same way when you're the wolf, but you were still there when I needed you. And... I dunno. Maybe it was almost easier?” Ian rubs at his eye again, sitting up. “I'm sorry for being all... Y'know.”

“You weren't all anything. You had a shit day. You have a right to feel however you need to fuckin' feel about it, Ian.”

“Okay,” Ian says softly, laying a hand on Mickey's chest. “Thank you for being there for me.”

Mickey sighs and shifts closer, curling his arms around Ian and tugging him until his head is resting against Mickey's chest. Ian slips his arms around Mickey's waist and presses his face against his neck, breathing him in, letting the warmth and the scent of him calm him. Mickey presses a firm kiss into his hair, and Ian can hear him inhale deeply as well.

“You do your fuckin' best every day, and I'm so proud of you,” he says quietly, words muffled by Ian's hair. “But you can't save everyone.”

“I know.” Ian's own words are whispered into Mickey's collarbone.

“That ain't on you.”

Ian nods, not sure he has the words to agree, not sure he fully believes it himself. Mickey squeezes him close, and it's okay. He has a right to feel however he needs to feel, and right now, in Mickey's arms, he feels a little more settled, a little safer, a little happier.


End file.
